(Canyon Ceman and Mike Whitmarsh were long-time friends and teammates on the AVP Tour. This article originally appeared in DiG Magazine, 2009 Issue #2.)

 

Michael John Whitmarsh, husband, father, son, friend, mentor, teammate, legend, winner in volleyball and life, died tragically on Feb 17, 2009. He was 46.

That day, Mike Dodd left me a message: Canyon, you need to call me. It’s urgent.”  AVP announcer Chris McGee sent me a similar text. Eric Fonoimoana also left me a message.

Dodd never leaves those kind of messages. I called him back within 10 minutes.

“Whitty died,” he said. “They found him in the garage of his friend’s house.  It looks like carbon monoxide poisoning.  They are calling it a suicide.”  (Since confirmed by a medical examiner.)

Shock. Disbelief. A spontaneous tearful breakdown.  Questions. Why?

As word spread, the same process would happen around San Diego and around the beach volleyball world.

Why did a beloved man with a young family that included two beautiful daughters, Jaden, 8, and Kendall, 5, his mother, Sharon, his brother, Rusty, his step-father, Jim, and innumerable friends who loved him, die the way he did? We can really never know. We can only come to our conclusions and go through our own grieving and healing processes.

The consensus among those who knew him best seems to be that Whitty played his emotional cards close to the vest. He had been everybody’s rock, and he always seemed to be in a bright mood at the center of the action.

Recently, he had shown small signs of depression. He had started taking a sleeping aid. He had made a few calls and sent some texts that didn’t seem quite like the Whitty we all knew.

While we’ll never know for sure the duration or depth of his despair, it seems that he was sent to a dark place by a combination of his impending divorce from his wife, Cindy, financial stress due to the horrible economy – specifically, San Diego’s deflated real estate market – and maybe an inability to grasp a happy vision for his suddenly insecure future. He said all the right things to the last day. He said he and his girls would be okay. He said he and Cindy would be friends. Life was still good, just different, he assured us. But, obviously, beneath the surface, there were demons bringing him down.

I find peace in the following conclusion: On the fateful night, the reality of his divorce hit him. Alone at the end of an emotional day, with his judgment impaired by a night of drinking with friends and maybe a sleeping aid, Whitty had a momentary lapse of reason and chose a permanent solution to a temporary problem – a huge mistake with tragic consequences that he is regretting as he looks down on his family and friends from above.

But again, we will never know.

Junior Seau, the football great and a close friend of Whitty’s, closed the memorial reception with these thoughts: “If you came looking for answers, you won’t find them here. All you’re going to get here is a free beer. Only Whitty and God know the answers, and we aren’t gonna see them for a while.”

 

What we do know is this: Michael John Whitmarsh packed a lot of life and joy into his 46 years. It’s my honor and privilege to offer a brief glimpse at the life of my friend and mentor.

Whitty’s athletic prowess is legendary. After leading his hometown University of San Diego Toreros in 1984 to their first conference title in basketball, he played several years of professional basketball overseas before coming back to learn the game that would eventually become his passion and career. He went on to win 28 pro beach titles and more than $1.6 million in prize money during 15 years on the tour, and he considered the silver medal he won with Mike Dodd at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics to be his finest volleyball achievement. He will be remembered as one of the sport’s most intimidating blockers. I had the joy of playing defense behind it for 40 tournaments, four victories and 25 top-four finishes.

After retiring from competition in 2004 (after a painful foot injury limited his mobility), Whitty went on to a successful career in real estate sales and development. He seemed to have the Midas Touch in the booming San Diego market, making bold moves with great timing. He also relished his role as “Shipping Manager” for Cindy’s successful entrepreneurial endeavor, Ultrafit Nutrition Systems.

Whitty was a hands-on father who loved spending time with his girls. He would go to Jaden’s soccer games carrying Kendall at his side. When Casey Jennings called him on the weekends, Whitty would cackle: “Just watching my girl play some soccer. Don’t worry, you’ll be here soon enough. It’s a whole new life.” He enjoyed giving tips on family life to his younger friends like Chris McGee, Matt Unger, Casey and me.

One thing that everybody agrees on is that Whitty had deep love for his family and friends. He would check-in for his patented one to three-minute “Whattya got for me?” calls with his inner circle on an hourly, daily and weekly basis. You didn’t want to make him mad, though, because he’d put you “in the freezer.” (That meant it might be a few days before he checked in again.) Assuming you weren’t in the freezer, Whitty was very generous of spirit. His natural tendency was to share his joy with others. In the words of former beach pro Al Janc, “Whitty was our Peter Pan. Being with Mike was like being back on the playgrounds of our youth, playing little games and laughing constantly without a care in the world. He was able to connect with our inner child, and we loved him for it.”

The competitive drive that lifted him to great heights in professional sports also drew him towards recreational sports and gambling. Whitty loved a high-stakes poker game or a round of golf or some left-handed tennis, and he always made sure something was riding on it. He loved the Chargers, Padres, Lakers and fired off plenty of light-hearted heckling when their games were on. At AVP events, both during and after his career, Whitty made things a little more interesting by laying down a line on the games.

“Hey, CanYOAN,” he would say, pronouncing it so the second part of my name rhymed with “zone.” “How ’bout a little action?” (And he would pronounce it axshoan to mesh with CanYOAN.) I got Dax and Sean at 2 to 1 over Wonger.” I always felt bad when I would only go for a friendly ten-spot. But I learned the hard way that Whitty was both lucky and good, and he always seemed to get the better end of the deal.

I was lucky to know Whitty the way few could – as a playing partner. He was the consummate teammate. Whenever we started a match, his final pre-game words would be: “We win as a team and lose as a team. Let’s have fun and leave it all out there.” When I looked to my left on the court, I never had anything to worry about. I knew Whitty would take care of his business when it mattered. He was more instinctive than analytical, but he knew how to win. He knew how to make plays. He was an “athlete” who played with heart and aura. And he was always classy and respectful to his opponents. In Karch’s words, “I’ve never seen an athlete in an individual sport so loved by his competitors. It was as though he was loved as a teammate. He was revered and adored by everybody on tour.”

Those of us who had the honor of playing with or against Whitty shared some of the best days and memories of our lives with him. He was a friend, but he was also a mentor on and off the court. His death strikes close to home and has affected me deeply, as it has many of our volleyball contemporaries who loved him and looked up to him. If trying times can take the life of a man we thought had it all figured out, it makes us just a little less secure.

 

Whitty’s memorial service brought the volleyball world together for its biggest reunion ever. His funeral was attended by more than a thousand people. The love and compassion for this man and his family was overwhelming: the bittersweet tears, the tremendous sense of loss, the palpable shock and pain. Hundreds gathered after the service for a reception at Junior Seau’s restaurant in San Diego, where Whitty was remembered through a series of eulogies and a slideshow. In attendance were many beach volleyball legends, including Sinjin Smith, Randy Stoklos, Pat Powers, Jon Stevenson, Eric Fonoimoana, Dain Blanton and Karch.

The day was emotional and philosophical, everyone still in shock, everyone still trying to find meaning in the tragedy. Out of the pain emerged a theme I heard repeated by many. The only way to move on from Whitty’s death is to find meaning in it from which we can improve our lives. In conversations with old friends and competitors, I heard many things that moved me, and I’ll paraphrase here as well as my memory serves.

Al Janc on forgiveness: “A tragedy like this makes you realize that life is too short to hold grudges. We are all human, and we make mistakes. The best thing we can do is forgive and move on.”

Mike Dodd on vulnerability: “There is a lesson we have to learn from this. Everyone feels down sometimes. To get through it, you have to make yourself vulnerable. Let the people who love you help you.”

Randy Stoklos on the common humanity and shared experiences of the volleyball world: “This hit me really hard because Mike and I had similar careers, roles and lives, and I have been through similar hard times. For a man who wants a family, the hardest thing in the world is to watch that dream fade. This is the first time tragedy has struck so close in our volleyball community. While we were always competitors, I respected Whitty as a classy person and a champion. His death has to make us open our eyes and realize that life after volleyball can be a struggle. When you’ve experienced the highs we all have, figuring out what you’re going to do and how you’re going to do it can be challenging. You have to rely on faith and the people who love you to get you through the dark times.”

As for my lessons, two stand out. First, life after volleyball can be tough. I have been struggling with my inability to find a meaningful job in this economy. If these challenges could take down our Mickey Mantle, we should all be vigilant in the dark times and aware of the need to be vulnerable to – and appreciative of – the people who care about us. Second, the beautiful competitive and life experiences shared among the volleyball community create a lasting bond that we can sometimes lose sight of in the heat of battle or during the post-retirement years. Over the weeks following Whitty’s death, I had an amazing series of conversations with Randy Stoklos. I shook Kent Steffes’s hand. I told Al Janc how much he meant to me. A staggering number of people called or wrote me to express their condolences. Life moves pretty fast. It’s important to relish the good memories and embrace the relationships that have been created. You never know when they’ll be gone.

Mike Dodd found reassuring words that helped bring peace to Whitty’s friends during many long hours of reminiscence. “We will all find a place for this in our hearts. And, eventually, we will remember all the good that Whitty brought into our lives.”

Rest in Peace, Whitty. You are loved, and you will be missed.

 

Michael’s widow, Cindy, deserves all the support that our unique and loving community can offer. Jaden is a champion on the soccer field who has Whitty’s athleticism and competitive instincts. Kendall looks just like him and has his personality, built through a very close relationship with her father.

The volleyball community can honor the life of Michael John Whitmarsh by donating to the scholarship fund for his daughters. The Jaden and Kendall Whitmarsh College Fund, c/o Torrey Pines Bank, 12220 El Camino Real, San Diego, CA 92130

These beautiful girls will be Whitty’s legacy, along with the joyful memories we all have of a life well lived but cut short.